


The sun is the same (in a relative way)

by crimsonepitaph



Series: Soldiers Verse [5]
Category: Actor RPF, RPF - Fandom, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Angst, Fights, Hurt Jensen Ackles, M/M, Mild Language, Military Uniforms, Physical Therapy, Recovery, References to Torture, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 15:03:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: The road to full recovery is a lengthy one - for both Jared and Jensen.





	The sun is the same (in a relative way)

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's note #1:** Many, many thanks to borgmama1of5 for the beta!  
>  **Author's note #2:** As per usual, my complete lack of inspiration regarding titles leads to borrowing lyrics of a song. This one, from _Time_ by Pink Floyd.

Two weeks after his discharge from the hospital, Jensen wakes up in bed alone, ceiling greeting him unceremoniously after a night of fitful sleep. He blinks a few times, unmoving, paralyzed, remembering the reality against the dream, trying to control his heartbeat, the tingling under his skin, the forced immobility that the nightmare had wired into in his brain.

Against the light, the images seem far. Burnt. Almost non-existent.

 Jensen becomes himself after a few minutes. He leaves behind ashes of the dream, the memories. He rubs a hand over his face, grimacing at the tinge of pain he feels when he tries to move suddenly. 

 _Easy._

That’s the motto of his physical therapist, Alex.  

Which says something about blindsidedness of the kid, since Alex has been working in the military hospital for six years and still doesn’t understand that the army kicks the _easy_ out of recruits three weeks into basic training, and from there on it’s all bull-headed, obstinate soldiering. Like Jensen’s doing.  

Except, by the time he walks out of the steaming hot shower, water dripping over a towel wrapped around his hips with no energy to actually use it, Jensen’s winded. Run-a-mile-up-a-steep-incline winded. He manages to pull on a pair of sweatpants and a stretched-out t-shirt in the time it would have taken him to do a ten-mile run carrying a full pack. When he sits his ass down on a tall chair at the kitchen island, watching Jared composing a percussion-heavy tribal song with his fingers on the cereal bowl amidst the inordinate amount of cutlery strewn across the countertop, Jensen’s ready to go back to bed. 

Well, not ready. His mind is alive, energetic, kicking. It’s his body that’s failing him. 

So he focuses on the curve of Jared’s ass, exquisitely obvious in Jared’s boxers. The way the simple white t-shirt clings to Jared’s back in wet spots - apparently nobody in this house is big on thoroughly toweling off - the way his foot can’t sit still, bare toes moving arrhythmically, stretching and dancing at the same time.  

“’Morning to ya, soldier,” Jared chirps, back still turned, preoccupying himself with something on the stove. 

Yeah. Jensen’s body doesn’t need to be working. 

His mind is fine as it is. 

“Hey,” Jensen rasps out, smiling faintly. 

Jared throws him a look over the shoulder. “I’m cooking.” 

 _God save them._

“I have 9-1-1 on speed dial.” 

“It’s cereal.” 

Jensen raises an eyebrow. “How do you cook cereal?” 

“You heat the milk,” Jared says matter-of-factly. He takes the pot off the stove, places it on a wooden board on the countertop with military precision, a contradiction to the chaos of kitchen instruments pulled haphazardly into Padalecki’s gravitational field. 

A white bowl appears in front of Jensen, along with a spoon, a box of store-brand fiber-heavy cereal, and a mug of steamy milk. Jensen raises his gaze.

He’s about to give a snarky comment, but he sees Jared’s concentrated frown. 

“Thanks,” Jensen offers instead. 

Jared nods. Presses a kiss into the top of Jensen’s hair, right palm coming over Jensen’s cheek and temple in a practiced gesture.  

“Eat,” he instructs. “And remember that we have Cortese after PT.” Jared’s voice fades as he moves to the bedroom. 

“ _I_ have PT. You have hours of torture with the kids,” Jensen corrects, starting in on the gourmet meal Jared had prepared for him. First, pour flakes. Then, milk. There, ready. 

Jared ignores him, the only reply the faint rustle of clothes being put on. Keys jangling. Phone beeping as it’s taken off its charger.  

Distinct sound of boots instead of bare feet.  

Routine.     

Jensen hears Jared in the hallway. More rustling. He doesn’t turn his back. Jared’s right, warm milk’s better than cold, it’s a miraculous discovery. 

“Oh, and,” Jared’s voice travels to the kitchen island, “Colonel Morgan wants to talk to us.” 

Jensen frowns, letting the spoon down. He raises his voice to reply so Jared can hear him. 

“Morgan?” 

“That’s what he said.” 

A jacket being put on. The last check for car keys. 

“To us? Together? About what?” 

Jensen’s to start the new job with the logistics unit in two more weeks. Padalecki’s busy drill-sergeanting. Morgan heads the elite teams that Jared and Jensen used to belong to. Don’t now. The connection? Non-existent. 

“Don’t know,” Jared replies while Jensen runs through the possibilities. He doesn’t seem concerned. 

But then again, Jared’s barometer on things that he should be concerned about is kind of fucked. “Front of the hospital at seventeen hundred hours,” Padalecki says to Jensen’s back, somewhere between an order and a question. 

Jensen turns to see him through the artsy wire shelves separating the kitchen from the hallway. He nods, grins, somewhat forcedly. Practiced. “Be safe.” 

Jared laughs. Jensen misses the long hair, the way strands would fall back in his eyes when he did that. Head shaven, Padalecki looks like a cookie-cutter soldier, and he was never just that.  

Yes. It is kind of selfish.  

Jared tells him the no hair feels good. More…like him, now. _Leaves time for more interesting things in the shower, Ackles, you aren’t seeing the silver lining._   

“It’s not my safety you should worry about,” Jared says, still grinning. “It’s the kids.’” 

“Don’t break anyone.” 

“Never.” Padalecki opens the door, sunlight creeping in. He puts on the cap. Another habit. Gets out. Not before a “Goodbye, honey.” 

Door closes, and Jensen is left to mumble. 

 _Honey._

The hell he is. 

But the opportunity to snap back has passed. So, finish breakfast. Then get dressed, then Beaver, PT, finally Cortese. Morgan, maybe. Motion. Organizing. Sixty minutes before mandated after-incident therapy. 

Jensen breathes steadily. 

Will. 

Strength to build his own new routine. But, for now, he still struggles to gather it. 

 

~ 

 

“Ackles,” Beaver nods as Jensen slips into his office.  

Clean, gray walls filled with bookshelves, strong and sturdy, old wood supporting thick volumes of psychiatry to one side. Behind Beaver, right in front of the couch Jensen sits on, and more book to the left, genres ranging from thrillers to mysteries to classics. Something for everyone, he had said. On the wall opposite the entrance, to Jensen’s right, a rack with magazines, children’s books, word game almanacs and two wrist strengtheners, black metal, red over the handles. There are people can’t talk. Even more so than Jensen, Beaver says. So it helps if there’s an anchor to ground them. 

Beaver’s version of stress balls for the ones in need. 

No desk - as opposed to Cortese, whose desk, from what Jared’s told him, looks like a tornado swallowed it and spit it back out - sheets, paperweights, and the occasional chocolate bar included.

Beaver wears a white lab coat over an old-fashioned brown suit. Glasses. 

They hold eye contact for a moment, Beaver trying to magic buried revelations out of Jensen by way of silent questioning. 

Jensen has none for him. 

Truth is, he doesn’t know what to say. It’s not like he feels like the grumpy old man has been helping him with anything. Except for some awkward conversations about _Shogun, Art of War, Garcia Marquez._ The classics.  

One thing Jensen did a lot when he was a kid: reading. His mostly absent mother didn’t spend a lot of time organizing play dates, his older brother was often off with his own business.So. _A Hundred Years of Solitude_ seemed like an appropriate title choice from the library for a thirteen-year-old. _Seemed_ being the key. 

“How’s your week been?” Beaver asks, pulling Jensen out of his memories.  

Jensen shrugs. “Good.” 

Good. Fine. The same. His life alternates between quiet evenings falling asleep beside Jared in their own bed, safe, under no outside threat - and moments where Jensen feels like he can barely breathe.  

“Physical therapy?” 

“Going.” 

Beaver nods. “Progressing?” 

“Slowly.” 

“Frustrated with that?” 

Jensen purses his lips into a thin line. He has no right to be. Jesus fuck, he was lucky. Three bullets that turned his chest into Swiss cheese, and the only thing he has to do is put up with Calvert five days a week. 

But yeah. He is. 

Jensen doesn’t answer out loud.  

“Sergeant Padalecki?” Beaver presses, going through the _everything-that-makes-Jensen-Jensen_ checklist. 

“Fine. We’re going to see his therapist.” 

Beaver remains neutral. Jensen’s hard-pressed not to continue.  

“Things are still - “ 

Only if he knew how to do it.  

Things are good. Somewhat. Mostly.  

They go to sleep in the same bed. Sleep. No intimacy. Gestures only when the sunlit kitchen offers a whole day in front of them, when they haven’t had time to remember that it will be the same as the last ten have been, full of words said and regrets, building on shaky footing. Clipped responses. Teasing. Healthy surface skin - with infection festering underneath. 

Jared is trying. Hell, he’d proposed fucking couples therapy. 

But, Jensen wonders if the faith that they’ll resolve this on their own, faith in _them_ , has already left him. 

“You okay with seeing Dr. Cortese?” Beaver asks, bringing Jensen back to the present. 

Jensen furrows his brows. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Well, you told me she’s been Padalecki’s doc for a while now. Aren’t you worried she isn’t gonna see things clearly?” 

Not really. 

“She kicks Jay’s ass more often than I have the heart to do it,” Jensen’s lips curve in a smile.  

However, it’s a long way from genuine. 

“Why do you think that is?” 

Nope. Jensen is not answering that question honestly. 

He doesn’t have the energy. He’s tired. He’s tired of thinking about what Jared thinks. About -  

It’s his. His own shit that needs compartmentalizing.  

And exactly because of this, because, right now, Jensen feels selfish, exhausted, pushing a boulder up a hill, he chooses to stay quiet. He agreed to meet with Cortese. To try, even if all he wants at times is to shake Jared, yell at him, question why he isn’t different. 

Who knows, the chance might not be missed.

“I can see you’re not happy.” 

Well, no shit.  

“It’s - “ _fuck him._ This isn’t Jensen’s way. Granted, he’s better adjusted to reality than run-to-Greenland Padalecki, but talking about himself? Frequently? Honestly? No smoke and mirrors, no jokes, only the bare bones of his feelings? Yeah. No. He did not sign up for this. But the army apparently decided he had, so Jensen simply balls his hands into fists over the soft material of the couch, and continues. “…it’s not Jared. Rationally, I know it’s not him. That it’s me.” 

Beaver, professional, no inflection, no approval Jensen needs. “You?” 

“It’s my decision. It,“ How the fuck does he put it? “…I can’t make him understand. But I need it. I need him to tell me that it’s all right to go slow when he’s…we’re used to fast, to acting, not stopping to think, not analyzing why things are….” 

There. He said it. 

Jensen admitted he’s not his own man. That he’s stupid enough to let Jared’s demons corrode at his own self-assurance and confidence in knowing. Knowing whether he’s doing the right thing. Whether he’s ever going to get back to full capacity. Whether Jared still loves him. Whether he will when Jensen’s a paper-pusher in logistics.

If Jensen can truly live without Jared if he’s no longer enough. 

“Jensen,” Dr. Beaver starts, pausing for a moment. “I’ve wanted to ask you a question, and I find that this is a good opportunity.” 

Jensen leans back on the comfortable couch. “Shoot.” 

Beaver appraises Jensen. “All right. Tell me then, Ackles: you’ve followed your brother into the army. You’re following Sergeant Padalecki out of the elite squad. Do you think that’s…healthy?” 

Jensen blinks a few times. 

Healthy? 

“I followed my brother into the army because I wanted to be like him. Strong. Invincible. I’m following Jared out because now I understand  there’s no such thing as that.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Jensen nods. There are some things he’s clear on at the moment. 

“Yes. I don’t want - “ _to die_ , Jensen is about to voice, but see, that’s the crux of it, the problem. He should be. Ready. Not want to. But prepared to give everything. Do what he signed up for.

But he’s not any more. And this admission makes him feel like he’s failed. “I can’t do it anymore,” he barely breathes out loud.  

“Understandably,” Beaver replies calmly. 

Fantastic. Great. The guy’s mocking him. 

All the pent up anger, all the criss-crossing tracks of thought and the life that should be simple now after getting out of the line of fire, only to find out it’s even more complicated…and Beaver acts like Jensen makes all the sense in the world. It feels nothing like it. The only thing Jensen knows, with excruciating clarity: he’s nowhere near accepting that he needs out.  

“I think you’re not used to following your most basic instincts.” 

Jensen blinks. “Are you - serious?” 

Uh, Alpha team. Two years. Still alive and kicking.  

Jensen would reason he’s decent at it. 

But Beaver shakes his head. “Ackles. I’ve dealt with tens, if not hundreds of officers, sergeants, admirals, and majors. Do you know what they all have in common?” 

Jensen shakes his head. 

“That military training overrides self-preservation instincts.” Jensen’s about to protest. But Beaver raises a hand, with more authority Jensen had first invested him with. “I know that’s a crude stereotype,  but it is true, nonetheless. Who else will run into the line of fire? Not only that, but often having more concern for the people near them, rather than for their own personal survival? And who would do it again, every day, forgetting that their lives are threads waiting to be cut by the edge of a blade so sharp, they’ll never even see it coming?” The doc pauses for a moment. “Now, Sergeant Ackles, tell me that is not an accurate description of most soldiers you meet. Especially, _especially_  the ones on the special forces teams.” 

–Chad. Chris. The pieces of him left after the grenade. The jokes Jensen'd made after Jared had come home, broken. The jokes they make now.  

“...so, of course it feels _wrong_  to want out,” Beaver’s words juxtapose over the images in Jensen’s memory. “But it’s not.” 

The sheer inability for Jared and him to properly communicate what they need. The constant rush of adrenaline after surviving another mission. The intimacy, always based on physical need - sex always made them feel alive, re-assured them that each of them survived. And now it’s quiet. Safety that goes against every fiber of their being.  

“Shit,” is all Jensen says, and lets his hands fall to his knees, head bowing.  

“You will get through this, Sergeant,” Beaver consoles, a slight nuance in tone, a familiar speech pattern that interweaves with the professional side of him. Gentle. Distant enough. Sincere.  

Jensen almost believes him.  

 

~ 

 

Physical therapy is … annoying and rewarding. Both. Calvert encourages Jensen with a smile stuck to his face like glue when Jensen lasts two minutes longer on the treadmill. PT Alex is just what Jensen needs after the session with Beaver. The spiral of thought in Jensen’s head loses wind and the anger goes into the physical effort.  

It helps.  

Not that Jensen is inclined to admit it.  

Two hours later Jared texts him that he’s waiting for him outside.. As he finishes the last of the tepid water in his plastic bottle, Jensen’s lips remember the taste of Jared’s skin, the cigarettes on his tongue, how it feels to be enveloped in big, muscular arms. He can feel the creases of the uniform, the Padalecki name patch under his cheek. _Home_ , or, whatever Jensen ever understood by it. 

But then he gets to Jared, who’s fidgeting with the cigarette between his fingers, unsure when he meets Jensen’s gaze, not moving toward him. The only thing Jensen can do is…breathe. Take small steps.  

Hold out a hand that’s hesitantly taken. 

 

~ 

 

 _It’s not…it feels like severing the last ties with the old me._

The meeting with Cortese goes slightly better than Jensen’s solo one.  

 _Jensen quitting - I - I don’t really know how to take that. He’s different. We’re different._

Jensen spends equal time listening and talking. Cortese includes him in every point, with quick glances to assess his reaction, and with directed questions, hard ones, ones that this time, Jensen answers.  

 _I’m sick of explaining it._

_I want him to get it._

Cortese nods. Jared looks at him. Studies.  

 _The only way to the other side is through, Jensen. Jared. If you’re committed to it._  

Jensen can tell Jared feels comfortable around her. He talks. More than he ever does with Jensen. Granted, he’s poked, prodded and kicked to do it by the petite brunette in front of them, but, still. 

 _I’m not sure if giving up the old Jared is the right thing. The old Jared was strong._

The old Jared was hidden. Muscle and armored skin. They could be by each other, inches apart, and yet millions of miles apart, like that day when Chris died, when Jared was throwing crude stitches on Jensen in the back of a Humvee – and there was no time for weakness. Feelings. 

The new Jared is weaker. Leaner. Less muscle.  

It’s still Jared. 

And Jensen still loves him. 

 _Now, I’m - I feel like I’m dragging Jensen down after me._

They stare at each other.

Fuck it. They’re committed. Jensen promises himself there will never come a time when they aren’t, even if they don’t yet know how to be these new versions of themselves. That’s all they have after they leave behind their previous identities. Their will.  

 

~ 

 

They’re not holding hands when they get out of Cortese’s office. The words they said need space to air out. But, strangely, they don’t need the illusion of not having said them at all. 

Without talking, they climb in Jared’s truck, and Jensen, even though the bone-deep, faint, but always present pain of recovery is pushing him to counter Jared’s proposition that they stop for a drink, doesn’t. He steps - _falls_ out of the Mount Everest of trucks, because freakish long legs is not something Jensen has, unlike the driver - and smooths out the black t-shirt he’s wearing, crumpled from the long day, inefficiently, with his hands. 

Jared leaves his cap on the seat. 

The bar smells like every bar does. Alcohol and smoke. Whispers and loud fights. Clinks of glass.

The bartender spots them as soon as they enter. She puts down a pint of beer in front of a uniformed guy at the bar, and waves them in the direction of a booth in the back.  

Jensen stumbles over to the pastel green vinyl bench, finds a comfortable position, and leans his head back, closing his eyes against the dim light reverberating off the walls. He inhales the smell in short, regulated breaths. 

Jensen lets Jared order for him. 

“You okay?” 

Soft. Unlike Jared.  

Padalecki’s better at this than he thinks he is. 

Jensen nods wordlessly.  

“Finished with the meds, right? I ordered you a beer.” 

Exactly what Jensen needs. 

He opens his eyes to find Jared staring, young, a glimpse of fear that reminds Jensen, contrary to normal assumption, Jensen is actually older.. But it’s gone in an instant.  

“It’s okay,” Jensen assures Jared. Padalecki nods.  

This is - different.  

Word of the day. He tells Jared that.  

In turn, his partner runs a hand through his non-existent hair. He grins when he’s met with only scalp.  

They forget. They adjust. 

“Steve’s here,” Jensen says, breaking the awkwardness consciously, knowing that the statement could lead to them picking up smithereens of deeper issues. Jensen tilts his head towards the front, pointing at the area set up with a few chairs, crammed addition between the bar and the entrance Jared turns to take stock of the current team leader sitting down at the last empty table with one of the new team members. Jared only shrugs when he meets Jensen’s gaze again.  

Right. Jensen forgot. It’s him Steve has an issue with. It’s Jensen’s hospital room Steve stormed out of, cursing. It’s Jensen who said _I’m done, thank you_ , and left Steve to hang out to dry with only Aldis of the old Alpha team at his side. 

Jared thanks the bartender when she brings the glass of beer for Jensen and the club soda for Jared, and a pile of stiff paper napkins.  

The conversation is sidetracked, with Jared starting to build his own personal squadron of napkin planes. Elaborate way to ask Jensen to do the talking. So he does. Summarizes his day, mostly the physical therapy. After all the touchy-feely sharing, it’s easier to talk about the pragmatic.  

Two simple gliders - with only slight modifications from the basic to pick up better speed in flight - are arranged to Jensen’s left, near the napkin holder where the laminated menu with quick orders is clipped. Jared works on a third plane in silence. 

He doesn’t even seem to notice when Jensen stops talking. 

Jensen knows all too well why. Jared’s willing his fingers to follow the fold lines and not to shake. This, at least. Jared should have this.  

He picks up the discussion where Jensen left it, minutes too late, but they both pretend they haven’t noticed. “You’re doing better if you’re talking back at Calvert.” 

Jensen nods. Then winces.  

“I feel bad.” 

“But not bad enough to stop,” Jared says, no heat. 

Jensen goes for a joke. “I’ve earned the right to be pissy.” 

Jared abandons the plane for a brief second, throws Jensen a look behind eyelashes. 

“You did.” 

The plane’s on its last fold. It’s perfect, if basic in comparison with what Jared once did.  Jensen finishes his beer, signals for another one. He missed the taste. The buzz. The thoughts that become echoes. 

When Jared’s fingers stop, his whole body straightens. 

“You know, Jen,“ Jared finally says, tone even.“He…Steve - I think he’s more upset at me. At the choices I made.” 

Jensen arches a brow. 

“What? Wait - Chad? Chris?”

The names - recurring memories. For Jared, _Chad._ The kindness that meant a bullet to the head. Names they say out loud only if they have no other option. And for Jensen, _Chris._ They’d watched. He and Jared, that day, they’d looked at the grenade, and at each other, and they accepted that they’d die. That split-second made the decision for them: a life without each other was too grim a prospect. And then Chris took the choice out of their hands.

“Among other things,” Jared agrees, frowning.  

Jensen changes gears for the unexpected direction the conversation is taking. 

“Jay. He knows that a leader must make tough choices. More so now.” 

That Steve’s pissed at Jared is true. And obvious. But that he holds a grudge, a tried and true one that goes deeper - that’s not plausible.  

Jared shakes his head. “He’s a different kind of leader, Jen. Steve’s more…balanced.” 

“Everyone’s more balanced than you. You have so many screws loose, it’s a wonder you’re still functioning.” 

Jared just looks at him. 

Jensen’s saved by with the appearance of his second beer, this one in a package deal with a warm shoulder squeeze. Jensen smiles at her. She winks before she leaves. 

“From the beginning, Steve was different,” Jared continues, finishing off his plane, and introducing it to its small paper family. He doesn’t take another napkin. Instead, he brushes them to the side with his hand, pulls the glass of soda to him. “We never saw eye to eye. He saw a mission like a game of chess. And I…” 

Jared trails off. 

Then, “I’m waiting.” 

“For what?” Jensen frowns. 

“For you to take the shot.” 

“I wouldn’t sink that low.” 

“Thank you - “ 

“ - because telling you that you saw a mission as a football game where you’re the defense trying to mow everyone down, I wouldn’t be exaggerating.” 

 “I’m never having a serious discussion with you again.” 

“A) you started it, Padalecki. And B) that one was a freebie. You asked for it. Literally.” 

Jared laughs.  

Jesus.  

How long has it been since they managed to do that? Together. Genuinely. 

Never. 

Not really, Jensen thinks. 

The depth of pain comes with a nice upside: the roots of joy in Jensen’s chest when he sees Jared with a truthful smile on his face. The warmth that spreads, flooding his still scarred chest, the alcohol-muddied brain. Their lives that have become more linear. Not just scattered points. Ups and downs, conversations, therapists, in contrast to fireworks and fights and near-death experiences. 

“Anyway,” Jared suppresses a grin to continue. “Yeah. We butted heads, but nine times out of ten, worked in the team’s favor, met somewhere in the middle.” 

“And why would that make him upset with you now?” 

“Cortese says it’s because I left,” Jared replies after a short pause, thoughtfully.  

Jensen doesn’t know if Jared agrees with his therapist. 

“Jesus fuck,“ Jensen exclaims, almost spilling his glass in the haste to lean over the table.  

Look, he hasn’t had alcohol in months. And the whole being shot and cut open seriously damaged his ability to hold his beer.  

“Did Steve not get that it wasn’t really your choice? You’d have done anything to get back.” 

Jared is silent for a moment. “Not anything.” 

Jensen takes a moment to take that answer in. 

Then. 

An inner fist pump. 

More warmth. He likes it. The hospital was cold. The house, empty. 

“Think about it, Jen. Chad. Chris, going out the way they did…then I’m hanging the boots. Then you. You were just the icing.” 

Jensen ponders that for a minute. Or two.   

“You know, Padalecki, that might be the single smartest thing you ever said.” 

“I’ve said smart stuff before.” 

“Let me correct: insightful. Most insightful. Your usual emotional capacity - “ 

Jensen gets distracted by Padalecki’s heated gaze. 

“Yeah?” the drill sergeant says - and fuck, that, should not sound hot in any way shape or form, except it makes Jensen thinks of orders, and it’s fantastic how day-to-day Jared’s the one who shouts them, you’d think if the man told a building to move, the building would grow legs and run to the other end of the continent, and yet, in bed, when Jensen tells him to stay, to wait, to come, suck him off -  

Jesus. 

The exhaustion and the beers are messing with Jensen’s ability to be coherent. 

He’s getting hard just thinking about it.  

And the bar on post is not the place for a quickie, no matter how much alcohol is involved. Too many friends with a chance to make fun of them if they see, and too many superiors that they could never face again. 

“What was I saying?” Jensen asks, riding the brief euphoria of being tipsy. 

“Making fun of me.” 

Of course. His favorite past-time. Beyond fucking Jared - Drill Sergeant Padalecki - into a wall. Repeatedly. 

“Let’s go home,” Jensen says, without too much preamble, abrupt, counting on Jared, fully sober, to decode the meaning in his leery tone.  

The asshole just laughs. Again. Throws a look at his planes. 

“Gonna be me or them?” 

It’s not really a question, as Jensen wished it. Padalecki rolls his eyes. Stands up. 

Then Jensen remembers, truly does, and doesn’t stop at just images, goes all the way to feelings, all of them, how good Jared feels under him. He anticipates how the bony hips fit under his fingertips. The heat -  

Why the fuck is he still thinking, and not actually moving? Jensen should be mourning the loss of the last scraps of sanity.  

Because when Jared - again, sober, not a drop of alcohol to go to his head, not one in fucking years - opens the door of his truck, gets in the backseat and pulls Jensen beside him, and then _over him_  - then Jensen thinks it’s a fantastic idea. 

The best one. In the fucking universe. 

 _Good night, brain. Not needed. Go the fuck to sleep._  

 

~ 

 

As it turns out, it’s not, in fact, the most fantastic idea they ever had. Not for Jared, at least, who wakes up with a sore back. Awkward position in the car, hardly soft backseat. But he wakes up with hands plastered to Jensen’s stomach, and they wake up naked, together, and even though it’s not in Jared to shut up about it, Jensen loves it.  

The pieces are coming together again. Returning to their rightful place. Changing.  

There are still some missing.  

Or, well, maybe they’re trying to fit them in the wrong shape.  

Most probably, if Beaver and Cortese are to be believed. 

“Morning, Kitty,” a raspy voice near Jensen’s ear makes him shiver, press back into the furnace hot body beside him. Jensen’s just about to participate in this new round of foreplay, when he actually _hears_  what Jared said. 

He turns in Jared’s hold, finds smiling hazel eyes. “Kitty?” 

Jared nods, content with himself, like usually when he gets a rise out of Jensen. His fingers tap lightly, spasmodically, against Jensen’s back. It’s bad in the mornings.  

“Nine lives, and all,” he explains.  

Jensen frowns. Then counters. 

“You know, Padalecki, you were shot, knifed, and a chew toy for the fucking Taliban, and you survived. Don’t you think it’s a more appropriate name for you?” 

“I’m fine with Sergeant Marshmallow.” 

Super. 

“It’s - “ 

But Jensen doesn’t continue. What the fuck is the point? 

“What, not happy with your code name? You always complained about not having one,” Jared teases, letting words be the replacement for touches, trying. 

Jensen appreciates it. Though - “It’s _Kitty_.” 

“It works.” 

“I’ll show you what else w - “ 

“I was thinking that we should see what Morgan wants today,” Jared interrupts, and does exactly the opposite of what he’s hinting at - of course - leaning in to capture Jensen’s lips in a kiss.  

Yeah. They should.  

Later.  

When the present catches up with the memories, and all of Jensen’s nightmares turn into Jared’s kisses and Jared’s broken hands touching him.


End file.
